Happy Where The Vermin Play
by potidaea
Summary: Dex Parios does not do therapy.


Grey tricked her. He specifically said, "a friend of mine goes to this queer night over at that cafe on 12th. She said you should check it out." He said nothing about therapy. God, therapy was bad enough but _group_ therapy? Jesus fuck.

She had made the mistake of assuming this "friend" was a) real and b) interested in her. So, she went out of her way to shower and look mildly less disheveled…for _therapy_.

Her eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head when she read the paper taped to the door:

_Womxn Loving Womxn Loving Themselves: Healing From Trauma_

_Tuesday 7-8pm _

Fucking Portland hippies.

She briefly considered sending off a sarcastic text to Grey that ambushes were a trigger and turned to leave because _fuck this shit_. She took one step and was nearly thrown to the ground along with a flurry of papers.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" The mystery woman asked frantically.

"Don't worry about it," Dex half-grumbled half-reassured as she bent down to pick up the papers. Judging by the contents, this woman was definitely the facilitator. _Great_.

She finally looked at the woman when she handed over the paperwork. She was tan with brown eyes and pitch black hair in a loose braid that hung over her shoulder. The baggy ivory wool sweater she wore did nothing to hide her clearly muscular form, much more readily shown off by her tight jeans. Dex took in her hands as they grabbed the papers…every finger was beautifully accented by silver and turquoise jewelry. She was _hot_. In fact, Dex wasn't sure she'd ever been more attracted to someone's hands in her life.

She made a mental note to find out if this woman was actually Native or just shopped at too many farmers markets. And if she was, did she know Benny because Dex could absolutely not afford to piss off Sue Lynn.

"Thanks," she smiled "Are you on your way in...?"

"Dex," she said in introduction. "I came for a bite to eat. I didn't realize they'd closed." _Lie_. "Was maybe gonna grab a beer next door, if you're interested?" She was too cocky for her own good.

"Maybe some other time, Dex. Tell Grey I said hi." The facilitator said smoothly before walking straight past her into the cafe.

_What the fuck. Fucking Grey._

—

It was just after midnight and Dex Parios was already stumbling when she entered 7-11. But that was none of the cashier's business as he swiped her card in exchange for the first 40oz she spotted, two of the small (fun size) bottles of Jack Daniels that were displayed on the counter, and a family size bag of Doritos (also fun size).

The Doritos were already open by the time she stepped onto the size walk, throwing them haphazardly in to her mouth as the glass bottles clanked in the plastic bag that swung from her arm.

Then, she spotted him. A homeless man sat on the sidewalk ten feet ahead of her. Her vision was unsteady but she read his sign:

_HOMELESS VET_

_HELP IF YOU CAN_

As she moved closer she saw the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo on his forearm - it was dirty from days (if not weeks) of being unwashed, but it was clear enough: he was a Marine. The ragged man looked to be in his thirties. He wore a baggy flannel shirt over a tattered t-shirt and ripped jeans. His hair and beard were unkempt, edging on matted.

She plopped down next to him. Pulling the whiskey out of the bag, she offered it to him. He took it gratefully, finishing each bottle in quick gulps.

They sat in silence as she worked her way through the 40oz.

Eventually, she slurred, "How long you been out?"

"Too long," he said solemnly.

"Yeah. Shit," She laughed wryly.

Suddenly she felt too sober. Like she'd just seen her future. She handed him the rest of the chips and half-empty beer and bolted down the sidewalk. She couldn't keep doing this to herself. How the fuck did she get _here?_

—

She tried three weeks in a row to go to that stupid fucking therapy group. She was certain it was filled with a bunch of anti-military brats who would tell her she deserved what she got. So, every week she walked up to the door and every week she left. On the fourth week, she bumped into the therapist again.

"Dex, hi. Didn't expect to see you back here."

"Yeah, it's not really my thing." She paused, sighing. "Look, can I buy you a drink or something? Just to talk."

The woman - whose name Dex later learned was Monica - stared at her for a moment, contemplating. Then, as if she knew she'd just hooked a Great White, agreed. They met at the bar next door and Dex told her about the drinking, the nightmares, the war. Monica suggested therapy. ("Try the group," she said. "Just try.")

Dex promised she'd try. She knew she wouldn't.


End file.
